Never is a Promise
by SyicoChica
Summary: When John Cena is fired from his job, he winds up in Chicago as a Contempory teacher for, in one of his student's words 'Someone who teachers peeps how to flow good' at a nearly failing center. Can he help it stay funcional while still staying sane?
1. Introductions

"Dumbass. What the /fuck/ is my problem!" John Cena scowled sliding down on badly worn steps holding his chin in his hands. He didn't look out of place in the poorer neighborhood of the south side of Chicago. About a million kids of all sorts of colors were running around. He felt his face crack into a grin as a boy was slowly inching closer to him, obviously trying to act tough but ending up looking like an eager little boy.

Maybe working here wouldn't be so bad. He doubted it but then again he brought it upon himself. He really shouldn't have said that to Mr. McMahon. He should have just kept his mouth closed. But, since when had he been good at that? He took the bait set for him by Edge, and he lost his title and his job because of it. Hopefully the latter was just temporary, but he severely doubted it.

At least her had a temporary job while he waited for Vince to cool off. Rather, to hopefully cool off. The ex-champ sighed, running his hand through his hair, using his free hand to straighten out his T-shirt.

"Aw, Da-yum, Mistah M wasn't tweekin'!" John glanced up looking surprised. The boy who was inching over earlier was right by his shoulder, looking completely impressed. John bit back a laugh, instead settling with a grin.

"I'm lovin' the shirt, kid," John smirked easily at him, eying the too-big Chain Gang Solider jersey. "You kiss yo' momma with that mouth?" he added after a moment. "You obviously know who I am, but who are you?" he asked changing the subject as the boy searched for an adequate response.

"Carlos Hernadez," he nodded seriously, his eyes filing with pride as he said the last name. "My papi, he's paying for lessons from you! At least... you're going to be new contem-...contempo- the guy who teachers people how to flow good right?" he asked finally, stumbling over the large word. John grinned at him again, not bothering to correct the kid.

"So...you know your way around dis 'hood, right? Wanna take to me the shop?" he asked, looking over at Carlos, who nodded eagerly, taking a hold of John's shirt and pulled him down a street, past paint-chipped buildings. Finally, Carlos led him to a brightly painted building. John stood a moment admiring the murals painted across the outside, craning his neck to study a particularly interesting one.

"Diego Rivera...Or so we tried to make it," an amused voice rang out. "Hot damn. Ol' M-Dawg wasn't hypin'. I'm Jousha Muñoz, The Center's art director for midgets," John turned around, looking into the face of a a black man with dredlocks. "Unfortunately, we had a few kids that thought 'Epic of the Mexican People' looked better in lime green and hot pink," he snorted, smiling slightly at John. "John Cena. Hot damn," he repeated shaking his head, causing the beads in his dreds to jingle merrily. "I never did think I'd eva see you, let alone work with you," Jousha motioned him into the building, carelessly swinging open the screen door, letting it bang on the hand-print cover wall.

John yawned slightly looking around the shop. Sun shone thought the dirt crusted windows, lighting up the shop. Guitars and various other instruments lined the walls, painted a deep burgundy. John flicked through some of the CDs, noting most of them were hispanic folk or hip hop.

"Mr. Cena!" A thin man clapped him on the back so hard he stumbled forward slightly. "I'm Frank Mane, the owner of Kingston's Center for the Fine Arts. I am so glad you decided to except the position as teacher of contemporary arts! We've been needing one," he let out a chuckle. "We have all your lessons booked. Your class is a huge hit among the younger age group," he beamed up at John.

John bit back the bitter response of 'I didn't really have a choice' instead smiling slightly. "Really? That's good," he responded politely, looking around.

"Oh shit, son! You wasn't trippin', joe! What's crackin' Cena?" John picked his head up, looking into the sweaty face of a man in baggy RocaWear sweats.

Mr. Mane rolled his eyes. "This is our hip-hop dance director, Jamichael Anderson." he sighed gesturing at the grinning man. "Next to him, is Lupe Ramirez, the Latin dance director," Lupe smiled coldly at him, shaking her perfectly curled hair out of her gorgeous face, although it currently had more make-up on than Goldust's did. John didn't like something about her, whether it was the way she watched him, or the seemingly permanent bitchy look across those big pouty lips of hers. Or just the way she thrust out her chest, fiddling so the low cut top fell further down.

Yes. Surprises of Surprises, John Cena didn't like slutty women. There was just something he didn't like. Or maybe the last one he dated cost him his job. How was he supposed to know that Maria really wasn't as stupid as she acted? Or that she was getting paid by Lita and Edge? Why he let a a pair of boobs talk him into cursing out his employer five ways from hell was beyond him. Like he said, he was an ass-man.

A loud THUMP was heard, and the majority of the people in the room turned. A red haired man scowled up at them, as Carlos laughed hysterically.

"The brat tied my laces together," he grounded out, brushing himself off. "I'm Ian Frasier, the guitar instructor," he grumbled, jamming his hands in the pockets of a pair of baggy black jeans, his shaggy hair flopping comically into his eyes.

John let out a strange cough, trying his best not to laugh. He picked his head up at the sound of deep piano music. "Lessons?" he asked raising an eyebrow stepping back and peering up the stairs as if the piano was at the top.

Lupe let out a dramatic sigh. "No. It's HER again, wasting valuable time," she pouted. Ian rolled his eyes.

"Really, just because Mireya BEAT you in getting the position for vocal teacher, I wouldn't think you'd hold a grudge," Ian snapped back coldly. He turned to John. "That, my good fellow, is Mireya Rivera. Amazing voice, not so amazing social skills. You gotta met her," Ian pulled him up the stairs. "Cena, as a bit of 'friendly' advice. Don't. Talk. To. The. Slut. Seriously. She's a bitch. Plenty of other people for you to fuck. And don't look at her breasts. They're effing hypnotic. And, believe me, from what I saw on RAW...you don't exactly have many self restraints," Ian chuckled walking off.

At that moment, John decided he didn't like Ian. Or anyone associated with Ian, including this Mireya chick. He'd half to pay that Carlos kid for tying his shoelaces together

"You'll never see  
The courage I know  
It's colors richness

Won't appear within your view  
I'll never glow

The way that you glow

Your presence dominates  
the Judgements made on me,"

John froze. He shut his chocolate coloured eyes,listening to the deep measures being skillfully played on the piano. The voice accompanying it...it was beautiful Perfect, even. It hit every note perfectly. It was nothing like Fiona Apple's. No. It was sweet, soaring. The girl had talent, mad skillz.'

"You say you understand

But you don't understand  
You say you'll never let fall from hope so high  
But never is a promise  
And I never need a lie,"

"Now do you see why Mireya got the job?" Ian sighed, as if HE had taught her all she knew about voice, as if he had caused God himself to gift her with that voice.

John took it back. He had to meet her. He voiced so, and Ian let out a small laugh

"You say that now," he added darkly, motioning John into the small room. John eagerly looked into the room. If her voice was any indication, Mireya must be beautiful. John followed Ian into the studio, feeling his jaw drop. He quickly shut it feeling almost guilty

Mireya certainly wasn't beautiful. She was a fucking stick. She had the bare minimum of curves, and he only saw those because of her form fitting black tank. Shit, the walls were probably jealous of her! She noticed him staring, and she pulled her white men's button down shirt over her self, making her curves even more hidden, looking shyly down at the piano. She swallowed turning her face up to him defiantly, almost as if she were daring him to comment on her body.

John relaxed slightly. Her face wasn't so bad. Long thick dark brown hair fell down her shoulders, and childish bangs fell into her big innocent looking blackish brown eyes. Her lips were thin, pressed together in a thin line. Her nose was fine, not to big, if anything rather small. In all, she was...cute. John decided to take back even further what he said about people Ian was associated with. For some odd reason, he felt protective of her, even though he just met her.

"I'm John Cena," he stated, clearing his throat.

"'Lo. I'm Mireya Rivera. Call me Mira...all people who don't piss me off after ten seconds do,'' she said, visibly relaxing after no flurry of verbal insults came. She even gave him a grin.

John also decided, another beautiful thing about her was her smile. It lit up her tired looking face, adding to the childish factor. It was unique, and she had a slight over bit, and some of her teeth were a bit crooked, not in a really freaky way. Again, it was just cute.

"You have a great voice," he commented, smilingflat out at her.

"Your mic skillz are the shit, homes," Mireya grinned again at him spinning around on the piano bench to face him quizically.

"Welcome aboard...John. It'll be...interesting to say the least,"


	2. Denial Isn't Just a River

Interesting. Oh, yes it most certainly was interesting. His first two days involved being trapped in a small room with several people for about a half hour at various intervals of time. As horrible as it sounds, it turned out, after those first few days, not that bad. 

The majority of his 'students' were kids between the ages of 7 and 15. The younger ones were eager to please, yet shy to show him their raps. The older however, pushed him to his limit rattling off curses and phrases that he didn't know about until he was in college. They rapped about how they were proud members of gangs, of how many whores they had, of how the had already killed, supposedly. They were testing him, trying to see what they could get away with. Or asking for help.

It was a new world for him. He'd almost always lived a life of privilege, and the homes these people came from, the neighborhood the walked through just to get lessons astounded him. He quickly realized that these kids were the most privileged of a disgustingly underprivileged society. 

"Yo, sup?" he greeted the thirteen year old girl that walk through the door. "Piano, right?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. He'd gotten pretty good at pinning each kid with what instrument or class they took. The shy girl staring down at her neatly filed finger nails was a dead ringer for either piano or voice. Mireya didn't come in for another hour so he assumed it was piano.

"Nah...the...um...rap thing?" she tried in accented English her eyes never leaving her hands. John's eyebrows arched up further.

"A'igh, c'mon upstairs wit' me," he nodded, hopping over the counter, nearly knocking over the centuries old cash register off it. He shrugged.

"So, what's your name?" he asked as he headed up the stairs, hearing her soft footfalls behind him.

"Claudia Torres," she answered shortly. John cringed. He hoped he didn't have another fangirl... Why else would this seemingly shy, not-willing-to-talk girl have joined his class. He opened the door to the room he split with Mireya and Ian, and saw her relax slightly. 

"I'm John Cena, call me John. So, Claudia, you got anything you wanna perform for me? Or do ya wanna just mess around with some crap for a bit?"

"I got something," she murmured, her eyes glancing up for only a second. John nodded encouragingly. She paused for a moment glancing around and pulling out a pen and a pencil. She moving to the table send in the corner, and started tapping a beat, moving her wrists expertly.

"This is bull

The life I live, school I go to, the family I have  
Why I gotta be the one stuck with the  
Crackhead brother  
Pregnant Slut of a sister  
OCD wit' cleaning mama  
The AWOL papi?  
I know I ain't the only  
person who gotta put up with this  
But why do any of us?  
Why are we the only ones who get sent back to our country,

who get back talked for taking jobs no American would settle for?  
What makes us dirty  
And you Americans not?  
Why are you allowed to live here  
And we're not?  
If I say it ain't fair  
Would you really care?  
Naw, I doubt it  
But I can't reroute it  
What does it matter anyway,   
I'm here to stay  
I got my greencard,  
My momma got hers too   
I'm an American.   
Not a dirty Mexican  
Or a filthy wetback,"

John was impressed to say the least. He underestimated her. It was a good rhyme, it's flow wasn't the greatest, but the content was amazing. When she rapped, her face got hard and the words spilled out of her mouth. It wasn't perfect, and she stumbled over a few words but damn.

"That rhyme was tight as hell!" he exclaimed as soon as she was finished "Your flow as a lil' weak, and the beat wasn't consistent, but girl, you can rap. What we can work on is evening it out. Who's your audience?" he asked looking at her curiously.

"No one," she answered, after finishing beaming up at him for the compliment. John looked surprised. 

"Really? Well find some to practice with, or at least in front of. I take it you wouldn't be comfortable performing in front of twenty people?" John nearly laughed at the look of fright she was giving him. "Alright, we need to get rid of that. If you work hard, you can probably perform a the shops showcase," he bribed, cursing at the look of fear spreading across her features.

"'Bye Mr...Cena..."

"John."

"Wha-Oh. Um bye, er... John,"

John grinned slightly. It was the first lesson he actually felt like he achieved something. Like he made a difference. It was a nice feeling. He walked back in the counter, tapping Mireya on the shoulder.

"Hey," he nodded, grinning when she jumped slightly. Mireya made a face at him, turning to face him.

"Hi," she mumbled, trying to look anywhere but his face. John stopped with greetings, launching right into how his lesson was. When he finished, Mireya's face had softened into a little smile.

"You feel it, don't you? You finally get it," she said softly. John stiffened, his expression becoming guarded. All week long the staff had been tormenting him with 'You don't understand' 'You won't get it'. It was stupid, when they wouldn't even tell him what it was that he would supposedly 'get'.

"The pay sucks, the kids are lil'...shitheads.," Mireya said flatly. "Not it's there fault. They don't get it. But when some student actually hits a b flat, or acchevies a head voice, or is so cute, is so..so...talented it makes you look forward to lessons with...You get. You know why, if I was offered twenty bucks a day more at a northside school, I wouldn't take it. Although I need it, how many of these kids do you think would be able to afford to take lessons there? Not one. Claudia's a special girl, John. She so talented. Her mother works at a lavadria, her father -like so many other fathers- doesn't even acknowledge her existents... Her lessons, like so many kids, are done for a fraction of a price...A price that in a whole month wouldn't get her one lesson in a north side school. You see how I can't leave knowing that one kid won't have a teacher?" Mireya sighed looking down at her hands, biting her lip.

She was getting the posture again, the one where she hunched over and glared down at her hands, as if to close everyone out. Seemed it happened after every display of emotion, but there wasn't chance in hell that John was about let that happen now of all times.

"I see... But you don't have to feel guilty, Mireya It shows you're caring, and 'lieve me, when you work wit' a buncha heifas like deez, you gotta be,"

\

Mireya let out a laugh at that. "You some kinda freaky, boy. You always talk like you was raised on the sout' side a Chicago?"

"Girl, quit playin'. Just cause my skin tone is of the vanilla persuasion, don't mean I'mma talk like a lil' white boy. All my friends? They was from the ghetto of Boston, babe. And while I can talk like I'm 'white', I talk how I was and still am being exposed to,"

"You have 'white boy' reasoning," Mireya informed him smirking down at him. "But you straight. I guess,"

"Oh, you know I'm sexy, an you wanna hit that ass," John smirked making a suggestive gesture with his hips, raising his eyebrows when she flushed slightly. "Aw, damn baby, you can't take my language o' somthin'?" His smirk only grew when she desperately scrambled for a suitable comeback. "It's aight, I'm a sexy beast..."

"Nah, but Chris Jericho is,"

"So you watch WWE," John asked flatly, merriment gone. Mira raised an eyebrow.

"Not anymore...My favorite got fired ," she said, hoping over the counter ignoring the disapproving frown of her boss.

"One for these days that child is going to break everything in this store," he frowned shaking his head. John continued to watch Mira as she led a tall gangly 16 year old up the steps Xavier Castellio, apparently her favorite and most talented student. The way Mira raved about him, he'd of thought he was a total stud. He was ridiculously pale with a sharp nose. Mira had said he was called 'The Spaniard' by the kids in the neighborhood, for his regal and light skinned appearance.

_He's not all that great. Hell, why Mira got so close to him is beyond me. Why is she looking at him so... Shit. I'm jealous of one of Mireya's students. What the fuck. That's so wrong. I've hit rock bottom. I could have picked someone more...**pretty** to like. Shit. I'm rambling mentally. Besides, I don't like her that way. She's simply more tolerable that Ian, or Lupe... _

No, John decided, there was absolutely no way he could like Mireya Rivera's skinny flat ass.


End file.
